Duke
Thank god for a lunch gig, that’s all I can say. After stumbling out of the house after breakfast, too numb to even register getting dressed or downing coffee, four hours of playing in a jazz club downtown is exactly what I need.
Every stroke of my fingers across the keys brings me a little more back to myself. Every minute at that piano centers me, makes things clearer again. Puts this morning’s disaster in perspective.
And it was bad. Okay, I get that. I do. Meg should never have seen me like that, least of all with her best friend.
But we’re all adults, and maybe she should learn to knock before barging into a bedroom. Maybe it’s not so cut and dried.
Maybe this isn’t so world-ending as it felt at dawn.
The way Clementine scrambled out of my bedroom, her face drawn and pale…
What did I say to her? I must have spoken to her, right? Wish I could remember the chain of events more clearly, but it all happened so fast. We need live action replay, like on the sports channel.
Glasses clink all around, and though it’s been non-smoking for years, this club still smells faintly of cigar smoke.
The lunchtime crowd is relaxed, unhurried.
Basking in the warm sunshine as it slants through stained glass windows, listening to the piano and chatting about their lives as they tease cocktail sticks out of sandwiches.
I play on, my chest looser by the minute.
Halfway through I go on break, sipping on a glass of lime water in one of the cushioned back booths while an old record keeps the crowd entertained.
Tucked away from prying eyes, I check my phone for texts from either Meg or Clementine.
My belly churns with dread as I nudge the screen to life—then I sink back, half relieved, half disappointed.
Nothing. Or almost nothing.
At 1pm from Meg: Scared the gator off. You’re next, you old goat
Not a peep from Clementine.
She’s okay, right? Maybe shaken up by this morning, but okay? She’s got Meg, after all, and my daughter wouldn’t know a grudge if it bit her on the ass. Plus judging by her text, Meg clearly agrees with me on this: everything that happened with Clementine is my fault. Not hers.
I’m the one who took her to that dinner.
The one who kissed her first.
The one who called her into my bedroom, and told her to shut the door, then pushed her down and rolled on top of her.
Sure, Clementine has been a non-stop temptation, even teasing me outright some days—like with that hose. Jesus, I thought my hard-on would never go away that morning.
But I nudged us along too. I wanted it to happen.
God forgive me, I still do.
“Up in five, Duke,” a bartender calls on his way past my booth, and I nod and tuck my phone away, glad to get back to the piano.
The piano is simple. It makes sense.
And when I play it, I can shake off this creeping feeling—that I’m messing things up beyond repair.
* * *
The lamps are on in the back yard when I get back.
It’s evening, pink-skied and warm, with lazy insects bobbing over the foliage, the shadows getting deeper between the leaves.
The pool glitters over by the stone wall, gator-free, and someone’s been swimming today.
There’s a towel slung over the nearest wrought iron chair, damp-spotted and twisted.
“You’re late,” Meg calls from her spot on a patch of grass. She’s crunching through a set of sit-ups, her tanned skin slick with sweat, one of my old football shirts knotted at her navel. “Your gig finished hours ago. Is this psychological warfare?”
She scowls at a spot over my shoulder as I approach, and she’s working hard, muscles flexing. Pushing herself, trying to sweat out any unpleasant emotions like she always does.
“No.” My boots come to a stop on the stone path. I scratch my beard. “Just went for a walk downtown to clear my head.”
Meg huffs. “Well, I could’ve done that for you. Aimed a leaf blower in your ear.”
My mouth twitches. I can’t help it.
And bless everything, because Meg looks up at me and rolls her eyes—then smirks.
Thank. Fuck. I’m not a perfect father, far from it, but the two of us have always rubbed along well.
We’ve always been a team, united against any troubles, and I can’t stand having any kind of gulf between us.
Lord knows her mother spared no thought for either of us over the years, but we’ve always gotten by together.
But Meg’s smile fades as quickly as it came. She jerks her chin at the picnic table, hissing through her teeth as she counts sit ups. “Thirty eight… thirty nine… look there. Forty.”
I wander over, my steps heavy. Birds flutter in the tree branches overhead, cooing to each other as they settle down for the night.
A purple notebook rests on the wood. It’s so light as I pick it up. Delicate in my hands.
The cover flops open, and the pages flutter, covered in neat handwriting: shopping lists and recipe ideas and pages and pages of algebra.
And diary entries. Lots of diary entries.
My name catches my eye. More than once.
“What is this?”
Why am I asking? I already know. Because that’s Clementine’s neat handwriting, and it’s not like Meg would ever do math for fun. My thumb rubs against the corners of the pages as I skim, my gut twisted with longing. Where is she?
“Some assigned reading for you.”
Hell no. I slam the notebook closed, ashamed of myself for holding it open for so long, and of Meg for even suggesting such a thing. Should’ve tossed the notebook back down as soon as I saw Clementine’s handwriting, not scanned it to see my name, over and over and over…
How many times did she write about me? What did she say?
I swear, I skimmed ten pages, and found my name on all of ‘em.
“I’ve read it,” Meg says, with zero guilt. “Or parts of it, anyway. A page or two. Just enough to figure out how Clem feels. It’s not like she’d ever tell me otherwise, and I figured I got a free pass when she boned my dad.”
Boned? Really?
Who raised this kid?
“That’s not how it works and you know it. Even if you’re mad at Clem, you’ve got no right—”
“Oh, whatever. She can be mad at me for this when she gets back. You just focus on the fact that she’s been in love with you for years.”
“I…” Gets back? From where? “Wait. Years?”
“Yes,” Meg gusts out, collapsing onto her back.
Her stomach rises and falls with each ragged breath.
“I had to check. I knew it’d kill you if she didn’t feel as much as you do, but god in heaven: if this morning was bad, reading some of the stuff Clem wrote wasn’t much better. Hoo-ee. She’s a horny little thing.”
Wait.
No, I can’t process that.
But Christ, how long has Meg known? Have Clem and I been moping about pining for each other since we met, and all the while my daughter hasn’t cared?
“So it doesn’t bother you.” I fold my arms over my chest, not quite believing this. “You’re totally fine with me dating Clementine. A girl your age.”
“If she’ll have you.” Meg gives me a dirty look, and it’s only a little undercut by her sweaty hair flopping in her eyes. “You were shitty to her this morning, and you haven’t spoken a word to her since. Maybe she’s not into that, genius.”
“Meg.” Staring at my daughter, I’ve never needed a straight answer more. Everything rests on this moment. The whole rest of my life, wobbling on a knife edge. “Just tell me honestly. I need to know. Are you okay with it?”
Her mouth twists. My chest aches.
The pool filter burbles, and the leaves whisper in the honeysuckle breeze.
“I am now,” my daughter says at last, choosing her words carefully. “I noticed that you two liked each other a while ago, and honestly, at first I hated it. Like, throw up in my mouth, set everything on fire, hated it.”
“I get the picture.”
Meg shrugs, my football shirt rubbing on the grass.
Guess I can forgive her a few stains, today of all days.
“But the more I thought about it, the more I came around. You’re both good people, so I know you’d treat each other well, and you’d both have company when I’m in Scotland.
And this way, we get to keep Clem a while longer. Maybe forever.”
Forever.
I’d give my left lung to keep Clementine that long.
“But I have some conditions.” Naturally. “One: a bedroom lock.”
“And learning to knock,” I point out.
Meg rolls her eyes and keeps counting on her fingers. “Two: no funny business in our dorm room. That is a hard limit for me.”
“Done,” I say quickly. I don’t exactly want to roll around on Clem’s rickety twin bed either—even if Meg didn’t share the room, I’d probably smash that frame to pieces.
“Three: no referring to Clementine as my step mom. Ever. It’s super weird, and I’m two months older than her.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay, then.”
A long pause stretches between us. I wait, but Meg’s done counting. She groans as she flops onto her front, pushes up to kneel, and chugs from her water bottle so fast that it spills down her chin.
Such a goof.
Such a good daughter.
“Where’s Clementine?” I ask, my throat all choked up with love. “You didn’t scare her off, did you?”
“Nope.” Meg wipes her mouth on her wrist. “But I did need revenge, for self respect reasons. I have a reputation as a tyrant to uphold.”
Ah, shit. A bug whines close to my ear, and I wave it away. “What did you do?”
Meg’s smile is pure alligator. “You’ll see.”